


and the sights were as stark as my baby, and the cold cut as sharp as my baby

by bruisedghost



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: M/M, gratuitous descriptions of rain, intentional lapslock lol, the Other Dream (tm), unfortunate miscommunications which result in blake getting punched in the stomach, yet another first kiss fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22771513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruisedghost/pseuds/bruisedghost
Summary: in the end, he supposes that’s how everything will be: before the war, and after. of course, this speculation is grounded in the idea that he will make it out alive, something which he is starting to doubt more and more with each passing day. so maybe all he has is before and during. before and now.- out there, the rain could drown a man. out there, most men are already drowning.
Relationships: Lance Corporal Blake/Lance Corporal Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 31
Kudos: 189





	and the sights were as stark as my baby, and the cold cut as sharp as my baby

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'as it was' by hozier
> 
> cw: canon-typical violence. brief descriptions of gangrene, drowning, and homophobia-related bullying
> 
> u ask, i deliver. i'm sorry, i know everyone wanted this to be very cutesy,,, i tried writing a fluffy version and i had to delete it bc it was so bad so now here we are. enjoy :-)

before the war, schofield didn’t mind the rain. he liked it, even, how it cleansed, like a baptism, the green fields of home. he liked to help lucy and sarah into their rubber boots and jackets, to watch as they jumped from puddle to puddle, laughing, calling out for him to join them, wanting their father to lift them up and spin them around in the downpour. 

in the end, he supposes that’s how everything will be: before the war, and after. of course, this speculation is grounded in the idea that he will make it out alive, something which he is starting to doubt more and more with each passing day. so maybe all he has is before and during. before and now.

and now, he hates rain. he hates it with a ferocity that he wasn’t even aware he was capable of harboring. he hates its pervasive, insidious ways, how an innocuous shower will pass through their trenches, light and brief, and leave everything soaked for days. 

it reminds him, somehow, of when he fell through the ice of the creek behind the schoolhouse. nine years old and astoundingly scrawny, he’d only survived due to one of the older boys pulling him out with a decaying tree branch. it reminds him of being suddenly submerged, in a way that knocks the wind out of you, numbs your senses. it reminds him of drowning. one wrong move and there will be mud in your eyes and your mouth, seeping through all your woolen layers. 

once, he’d known a man terrified of losing his feet to the rain. a man who said that any of them could start decomposing at any time. he said they called it trench foot, and that it would turn a man into a living corpse, too much mud for a body to handle, or something.

luckily for the man, a boche put a bullet through his brain before he ever needed to deal with it. 

it’s been storming for four days. their tents and barracks weren’t built strong enough to weather it, though schofield is beginning to think that they weren’t built to weather anything. either way, staying below ground makes him feel as though he will wake up underwater, like those poor bastards on the titanic that abigail had been absolutely inconsolable over. his wife’s empathy had always astounded him, and he tries not to think about the news she’s being forced to read now, blood-stained and senseless, too close to home. 

so, he sleeps atop the cold, muddy ground and prays that he will not freeze to death. or, at the very least, that it will be quick.

he’s huddled against a tree at the moment, sky darkening with every passing second. his nerves plague him when it’s like this, discomforting and chaotic. 

he doesn’t know where blake is. usually, when it’s like this, blake will seek him out just to fall asleep beside him, curled up and close enough to touch. 

they haven’t been talking much recently. schofield has found that blake is prone to childlike moods of absolute melancholy, where his typical spirit seeps completely out of him in favor of an exhausted shell, one that schofield monitors carefully in order to make sure that the miserable boy inside is still keeping himself alive. secretly, schofield will try to anticipate blake’s lows, just so he can steal an extra ration of liquor and try to scavenge something sweet for him. 

most of the time, blake will tell him to fuck off, hating to be babied and feeling like a burden. other times, blake will smile, weak but visible, and accept schofield’s gifts with warm hands. schofield takes his chances every time. 

it’s bad now, though, almost as bad as the weather, and blake’s anger has begun to swallow up the sadness. he’s been avoiding the other men, schofield can tell, because if he can’t bear to be around scho then everyone else is absolutely unimaginable. 

so, schofield sits alone and begins to wonder whether he should go find the boy. just to make sure he hasn’t passed out somewhere stupid or gotten into some sort of trouble. 

but then he starts to think that maybe blake really will get mad if schofield tries to track him down. he wants to stay in blake’s good graces, since blake has so permanently planted himself in scho’s. 

before he can come to a conclusion about what to do, there’s the unmistakable sound of someone dropping down into the mud with all their weight. he looks up and there’s tom, right in front of him. 

“speak of the devil.” schofield mutters.

blake fixes him with a glare, one that makes him seem very sad and long-suffering and one that schofield simply cannot bring himself to meet. despite this, blake still forces out a remark.

“talking to yourself again, scho?” 

he’s so quiet that schofield can barely hear him over the storm. his curls are drenched, matted to his forehead, and schofield has the strange urge to reach out and brush them off his face. he rips a handful of grass out of the ground instead, throwing it half-heartedly.

“always.” he answers with a grin. 

they sink into silence after that. there isn’t much to say. thunder begins to boom above them, lightning flashing like flares. everytime the sound rings out, schofield tightens his hold on the earth below him, waiting for an impact that does not come. 

after a while, blake shifts his position so that his legs are beneath him, bringing him closer to schofield. still, neither of them speak. 

there’s another clap of thunder. schofield winces, and his mind unpleasantly reminds him that the germans could be using the noise to cover their movements, that the two of them could be dead in seconds.

his impulse control weakens, and he moves to gently push the hair back from blake’s forehead. the boy’s curls are wet, slick with oil and grime. his hand stays there for a moment, as though feeling for a fever, before retreating. 

blake does nothing except stare. pulsating lightning splits the sky, illuminating his bright eyes and burning cheeks. 

schofield feels sick. he feels stupid. he wants blake to start talking, or to look away. preferably both. 

time trickles by. schofield remembers an old wives tale he heard once, about counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. the number is supposed to mean something, but he can’t remember what. he does it anyways.

he gets to the eighth second of his third strike. blake abruptly moves forward. 

blake moves forward and it’s sudden, it’s shocking. he’s warm and harsh and schofield thinks, for one deranged instant, that blake is trying to kill him. schofield thinks that blake is trying to strangle him or maul him or _whatever_ , and the only other thought in his head is of a boy he knew once, johnny, who tried to make a move on daniel and was beaten so badly his parents could barely claim him. 

and schofield had been so _careful_ , he had, so fucking careful that no one would ever know. and now here he is, he’s been caught out, the judgement has fallen, shattered over his head. again, he is reminded of the freezing creek. of the sinking ship. 

it’s an instinct, to fight for his life. he punches blake, as hard as he can, in the ribs. blake falls back, getting caked in mud and gasping for air. 

blood roaring in his ears, drowning out everything except his own circulation, schofield watches blake, trying to prepare himself for whatever comes next. 

what he doesn’t expect is for blake to look at him with a face full of hurt - like he did much more than gut punch him. the look pulls him back, back to the fields of france. and he realizes, with dawning horror, that blake wasn’t trying to hurt him. the angle was all wrong, blake’s warmth hadn’t been transferred to him from a fist, from a place of violence. 

blake had been trying to _kiss_ him.

“oh my god-” schofield starts, but he’s cut off by a terrified blake. 

“please don’t tell anyone, i’m so sorry, please, i- i- something’s wrong with me. my moods, you know, i- please don’t tell anyone,” 

_“blake.”_

“what?” 

“i’m sorry. i thought you were trying to hurt me. i really did, i wouldn’t ever…”

“what?”

neither of them are making any sense, too wrecked with anxiety and confusion. instead, schofield grabs blake by the lapels with strong hands, but places the gentlest kiss he can manage on blake’s lips. the boy in front of him is so tangible, so present, that he can hardly think of anything else. abigail takes the form of a distant memory, completely disconnected from anything he can properly hold onto. 

he draws back. “you kiss too harshly. i thought you were trying to murder me.” 

“oh.” blake responds. he’s still trying to catch his breath from the blow. 

schofield feels horrible, absolutely awful. he can’t help but lean in again, giving blake another feather light kiss. 

a smile cracks across blake’s face, white teeth shining. “so i reckon you won’t break my nose if i try to kiss you again?”

“i will sincerely try not to.”

later, the sky above france will clear. later, schofield will trace the outline of the darkened bruise he left on blake’s stomach with his fingers, and then with his lips. later, schofield will apologize again and again and again, and blake will shrug, tiredly, saying he supposes he deserved it.

**Author's Note:**

> i can have a little projecting onto thomas blake. as a treat.
> 
> this SUCKS djnfkjkdj y'all im so sorry. kudos + comments are still appreciated though!! i am planning on writing more 1917 fic, unfortunately
> 
> anyways! as of right now, i have a very edgy and not at all 1917 related tumblr blog @ unearthly-angel, and i would absolutely love to make some friends who are as obsessed with this movie as me!! so please send me a message or an ask, i am truly all alone out here just thinking bout scho/blake 24/7 even if my tumblr doesn't make that obvious


End file.
